


The End is in Sight

by Kirito_Potter



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Death, Ghosts, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 12:39:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18410822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirito_Potter/pseuds/Kirito_Potter
Summary: Simon was fed up with ghosts by the time he was eleven. So when the Mage praised him on his ability to communicate with them and brought him to Watford to hone his powers as a medium, he wasn't exactly excited. The fact that he'd also be learning magic sweetened the deal a bit, though, and soon he was slipping on brand new robes and inheriting the Mage's wand.





	The End is in Sight

  
  


Simon didn't know how it worked. If it had to do with unfinished business, or if everyone got to come back from the dead, or only those with enough energy. He had no idea. And frankly, he didn't really care. He never wanted to see them, much less talk to them. They were just a nuisance, something strange and morbid that got in the way of his own life.

Most of the time, they couldn't even get their message across. It took a lot of energy to physically manifest, so actually speaking was nearly impossible. They could usually only manage a word or two, and not all of them knew what those words should be. On the one hand, things like pointing to someone and saying “my killer” or “protect my daughter” were certainly worthy of passing on. On the other, pointing to themself and saying “Henry” wasn't going to help much.

Added to how they followed him around and pestered him, Simon was fed up with ghosts by the time he was eleven. So when the Mage praised him on his ability to communicate with them and brought him to Watford to hone his powers as a medium, he wasn't exactly excited. The fact that he'd also be learning magic sweetened the deal a bit, though, and soon he was slipping on brand new robes and inheriting the Mage's wand.

He found himself standing out in a great field, in a crowd of students (living and dead) in front of an enormous crucible. All at once, a burning started in his stomach, pulling and grabbing. A translucent woman reached for his arm, trying to tug him the other way, but her hand went right through him, so he kept walking. He wasn't sure exactly where the crucible was taking him, but he tried to remember the Mage's assurances. It wouldn't hurt him, it wouldn't take him away, it wouldn't leave him without a roommate. He was a mage, and he was supposed to be there.

He stumbled past countless boys, looking desperately for someone walking in his direction, but his vision was so crowded by greyed-out figures, calling out to him with gaping mouths and faded eyes, that he was having trouble seeing what was important. He squinted, rubbing at his eyes, but it did nothing to remove them from his sight. Doing his best to ignore the extraneous figures, he kept walking. They were everywhere. Just how many people had died at this school? Hordes of desaturated faces, dried blood, torn clothes. He swatted at them like flies, growing impatient. If he could just get past them and find his roommate--

His hand hit something solid, and he yelped, pulling his hand back. The boy was glaring at him with harsh eyes, looking less like the victim and more like the perpetrator. He had to be quite powerful if he'd made physical contact, but he didn't look much older that Simon himself. Simon couldn't see any wounds or signs of pain, but he was just as grey as the other ghosts, if a little more saturated.

“Maybe you wouldn't have hit me if you weren't flapping your hands about,” the boy growled, and Simon flushed, bringing his hands closer to his body.

“Sorry! I didn't think you'd be corporeal.”

The boy's expression went from murderous to confused. “Corporeal? What is that supposed to mean?”

He groaned internally. “Are you one of the oblivious ones?”

The boy gritted his teeth. “The only oblivious one here is you! Are you going to shake my hand or not?”

Simon took a moment to process this, then looked down at the outstretched hand. He waved his own under it. Completely solid.

“Are you stupid or something?” He asked, unaware of Simon's surprise.

“You--” he looked up, eyes wide. “You're alive!”

The grey boy raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Of course I'm alive! You're the one who'll be dead unless you shake my bloody hand!”

Simon gaped for a moment, then grabbed the boy's hand. The crucible's pull dissipated.

The boy huffed, snatching his hand back. “Merlin. Of course I get roomed with someone so stupid they think I'm a corpse.”

Simon swallowed. “Not a corpse. A ghost. I could have sworn you were dead.”

He shook his head. “Well, I'm very alive, thank you.” He pushed his hair back from his eyes.

Simon shifted his weight, feeling awkward. “Um… well… I'm Simon.”

The boy wouldn't even look at him anymore. “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.”

Simon didn't know what to say in response, so he didn't say anything at all.

~

Simon finally stepped into his dorm and was astounded by the size of it. He'd only ever lived at orphanages and the occasional foster home, so having such an enormous room to himself (even if he needed to share with one other person, compared to much smaller rooms with many more roommates) was incredible.

And then he saw the headless man floating between the beds.

He groaned, dropping his meager suitcase by the door. “Right. Just because I have a new room doesn't mean I'm saved from you people.”

At least his living roommate hadn't come to the room with him, which gave him a few minutes to try and reason with the expressionless freeloader.

“Um, hello?” He asked, waving at the ghost as he stepped closer. He'd found that even people without faces could usually hear and see him just fine. “Could you find some other place to hang out? This is my new room. I was kind of hoping to have some peace and quiet.”

The ghost turned to him, surprised based on his body language. He raised his hands as if to shield himself. He didn't speak.

“What, so you can see and hear without eyes or ears but you can't talk without a mouth?”

No response.

“This makes less and less sense with every new person.” He sighed and pointed to the window. “Look, unless you have something you really need to tell me, I'd appreciate your absence.”

The ghost hesitated, then turned away again, continuing to float where he'd been when Simon had entered.

“Fine,” Simon conceded. Communicating with ghosts was one thing. Getting them to follow his orders was another.

He sat on the edge of his new bed, and his annoyance immediately melted away. He sighed loudly and laid down on the incredibly soft mattress, breathing in the flowery smell hanging in the air. Unexpected second roommate aside, this room was like heaven.

A few minutes later, the door opened. Simon sat up to see Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch enter the room.

“Hello,” Simon offered.

“Hello,” he echoed, still just as grey as he had been before.

Now that Simon wasn't overwhelmed by the sheer amount of ghosts that had been in the courtyard, he could focus on his roommate. He had a quality to him that seemed distinctly dead, even disregarding the lack of pigmentation in his skin. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he didn't seem as alive as he claimed. He'd have to look into it. (He had a whole eight years to do so.)

“What should I call you?” Simon asked as the boy walked to the other bed. “You've got four names.”

“You're right,” he responded. “Not nearly long enough. You'd better add ‘Lord of Darkness and King of the Underworld’ after.”

“And 'Duke of Snark’?” Simon snorted.

He smirked. “I quite like that, actually.” He turned to face Simon again. “Call me Baz. I hate the name Tyrannus.”

“Noted.”

“Don't think this makes us friends. You're creepy and rude.”

Simon flinched. “Fine. Then I'll be creepy and rude with…” he glanced to the ghost still facing Baz's bed. “What's your name, anyway? If you're not going to leave, I might as well know who you are.”

Baz huffed. “Who are you talking to? Your imaginary friend?”

Ignoring him, Simon noticed something on the wall that hadn't been there before. “Redwood? Is that your name?”

Baz squeaked a little. “Redwood?”

Simon turned to him. “Does that mean anything to you?”

Baz frowned. “Redwood is the name of the professor who lived in this room before it was converted into a dorm.”

Simon nodded. “That makes sense.” He glanced to the decapitated man. “I guess you don't need a mouth to communicate after all.”

“How did you know about Professor Redwood?” Baz seemed more annoyed than upset.

“He wrote his last name on the wall in blood,” Simon answered easily.

Baz went paler, if that was possible. “Excuse me?”

“Well, he's kind of missing a head, so he couldn't just tell me his name,” Simon shrugged.

Baz's eyes widened. “You're talking to Professor Redwood?”

“Well, yeah. That's what I've been trying to say this whole time.”

Baz shook his head. “The professor was killed by a manticore. His head was bitten clean off. How did you know any of that? Are you trying to pull my leg?”

Simon crossed his arms. “What do you not understand? I'm talking to him. He's here. Dead.”

Baz gaped. “You… you can talk to ghosts?”

Simon shrugged again. “It's kind of my shtick.”

The professor floated closer, poking at Simon's face, and he shuddered.

“Hands off! You're all bloody!”

Bad didn't move from where he was standing, just pinched himself a few times. “You're a medium. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

Simon pushed at the professor, but, as usual, it had no effect. “That's why the Mage brought me here. He wants to train me to be Watford's new ghost whisperer. Unluckily for me, I hate ghosts.”

“Can you… talk to someone in particular? Summon them, I mean?”

When Simon looked over, Baz looked surprisingly vulnerable.

“I get that question a lot,” Simon sighed, giving up on the professor. “I don't think so. They just show up when and where they can. Some are more persistent than others, but it has nothing to do with me. All I can do is listen.”

Baz's expression shifted back to his usual disinterest.

“But I figure that's what my training will be for,” Simon guessed.

Baz still wasn't impressed. “Right, well,” he sighed, “until you have any semblance of control over it, I'd prefer not to hear about any of this ghost business.”

“That's fair,” Simon groaned. “If I could opt out, too, I would.”

Baz sighed and leaned down to pick up his suitcase, setting it on the bed to start unpacking. “Well, that's too bad, isn't it?”

The professor finally let go of Simon's face, and he groaned, wiping ethereal blood off his cheeks. He watched as the professor turned back to Baz's bed and started to play with the boy's suitcase.

“Um, Baz?” Simon tried. “The professor is--”

“I don't want to know,” Baz snapped.

Simon hesitated, but let it go. And if the professor suddenly gained a physical form and slammed Baz's suitcase closed, making him shriek, it wasn't Simon's fault.


End file.
